and her husband were alone.

"Dost thou speak of Kate?" she asked then in a low voice.

"Ay, marry I do," answered Sir Richard, as he took the seat beside
the glowing hearth, near to his wife's chair, which was his regular
place when he was within doors. "I scarce know the child again in
some of her moods. She was always wayward and capricious, but as
gay and happy as the day was long--as full of sunshine as a May
morning. Whence come, then, all these vapours and reveries and
bursts of causeless weeping? I have found her in tears more oft
these last three months than in all the years of her life before;
and though she strives to efface the impression by wild outbreaks
of mirth, such as we used of old to know, there is something hollow
and forced about these merry moods, and the laugh will die away the
moment she is alone, and a look will creep upon her face that I
like not to see."

"Thou hast watched her something closely, Richard."

"Ay, truly I have. I would have watched any child of mine upon whom
was passing so strange a change; but thou knowest that Kate has
ever been dear to me--I have liked to watch her in her tricksy
moods. She has been more full of affection for me than her graver
sisters, and even her little whims and faults that we have had to
check have but endeared her to me the more. The whimsies of the
child have often brought solace to my graver cares. I love Kate
right well, and like not to see this change in her. What dost thou
think of it, goodwife?"